Addictive Nightshade

by Poppet

  Sipping, the injection of tasty fluid scalds my tongue. Tropical vapors scorch up my nose when I swallow and I revel the warmth chasing into my body with an afterburn of tantalizing zing.

  Looking around I quickly peruse the white gossamer curtains draped over us like a tent, the walls open except for the one behind my chair which is a sheet of polished stone, and the deeply impressive fireplace holding half a tree crumbling to glowing embers. Beyond us lurk eternal shadows which hint at a vast open cavity.

  The only other light we have comes from a lamp on the table beside his chair; it's a substantial shell coiling up as a cone, lit from within.

  Putting my feet together on the dark floor I watch as my Gothic dress flops to cover my shit kickers. My courage is so small it would get lost in a teaspoon but I grab the fumes left of it and face him, daring to blurt, “Why am I here?”

  Finally the expressionless face betrays a hint of humanity with the quirking of sharp corners, veneering his mouth in humor, “I've watched you for months.”

  “Excuse me?” I challenge, cocking my head.

  What the hell for? I'm so mediocre I am unworthy of a stalker, enormous or otherwise. I've moped for three new moons, lost between the facade of eking a paycheck and living for the weekends to hide in music and the Fraternity, looking for Guy, hoping he hasn't left me alone in this world.

  “You are not hard of hearing, Emma. Your soul registers my words before your mind does, otherwise you wouldn't have been affected by me the way you were.”

  The timbre of his voice hums my bones, stripping my body of strength again. It's such a unique voice as if he's speaking in tongues, casting absolution and hallucinogens into the room to tickle the vibrations in the air stretching taut between us. It's angelic and mesmerizing.

  Soothed by the luxury of his baritone I find it challenging to interrogate his words. Leaning heavily into the depth of the leather chair I gawp at him. What are you? A wizard? A master of satanic script who performs miracles while stripping your quarry of free will? What?

  Leaving his drink on the rustic table he leans forward with his elbows on his knees to stare at me, reminding me that he's tall, with shins that look ultra sexy in those ink-black jeans.

  I have a closet fetish over towering guys. I don't care if they're muscular or not, I am just a total slut for a neck cricking dude. I love the grace of long legs, they are sumptuous and attention grabbing with the way material curls around slightly bowed bones and muscle. They're even hotter walking. My heart does the two step, palpitating to pound my pulse uncomfortably up my neck.

  “Macala, why the hell did you bring me here?” I insist, knowing I have to do this while I still have a semblance of my wits about me.

  Brooding eyes stare into mine while his jaw twitches, his laced fingers tensing in hold, “Eagle is coming. They'll kill you on first sight, no questions asked. You are like me, Raven. Emma, you have much to learn yet, but you have to accept your fate if I'm to intervene in your longevity. You seem like you don't care if you live or die, however I have an investment in the former.”

  “Raven?” I latch onto that part because the rest is too heavy to contemplate right now.

  “Clans, sectors of our society. Once this region was shared but we split up, Eagle left with his people and the wind says he's on his way back. Your attitude, your affinity to my aura and temperament, all I've seen of you and your own genetics confirm you have Raven in your blood, you are one of us and we are rounding up our own kind for safekeeping.”

  And you forgot your meds. Pity, you don't look like a whackjob, but then I have a guilty history of picking losers out of a large horde.

  It's a logic booster because I stand, leaving my exotic drink on the floor next to my chair. Glancing around, I wonder how hard it's going to be to escape a stalker when I'm already in his lair. Am I allowed to have clues? We can make my escape a little game so I at least stand a fighting chance.

  He stands too, holding his hands out like a goal keeper, “You are here by my invitation. You get one chance to accept or reject my offer of sanctuary. Whatever you choose, you will be marked by that decision for life. You can't leave without the mark, and the choice is final.”

  “I don't understand?” I whisper, my voice hoarse with ratcheting nerves.

  He won the gold for fucktardness. He's super insane, not the itty-bitty kind which marks an individual as eccentric, but this here is a full blown case of 'lord of crazy'.

  He unclips the studs on the back of his gloves, biting the left one off with a teeth clamp, then slowly removes the other. It's threatening and hard to read. Is he getting ready to deck me? Don't dudes leave their gloves on before they KO you? Not that I'd stay conscious beyond one punch of those solid knuckles. Shit.

  Unnerved, my jaw aches with tension as I maintain vigilant focus, ready to bolt.

  Turning his hands over, he shows me the palms.

  Blinking, trying to understand, I glance up into his handsome face to ascertain intention. His indomitable projection forces my gaze back to those hands held out the way you'd offer your palm to a fortune teller. Except I can't see his lines. I'd say judging by what I'm looking at, that he has no future to foretell.

  I need to keep a grip. I want to scream, cower, run. Even I know that reasoning with a lunatic is possible, but if he's truly mad I'm pretty much fucked.

  It's okay Em, just listen.

  I want to look up to meet his eyes when he speaks directly inside my head but can't no matter how hard I try, and I finally comprehend how I heard him back at the den of the F.F.

  His left hand has a raised triangle with thorn shapes flaring off it on the palm, the right has a circle of sharp black spikes raised out of the palm. The human pincushion, and people deign to call me strange.

  He shows me the left, “This is the acceptance of friendship. You clasp my hand and are welcome here forever.” Closing the hand into a tight fist he then shoves the right into my face, “This is rejection. We scar all who cross our threshold and by your mark we recognize if you are accepted or rejected by the Raven Clan. It's a sigil to recognize kin and ally.”

  Except no one will know when you wear gloves. Isn't that cheating?

  Did you get implants? Are you horribly deluded, or... or... jeeez. Is this like a gang initiation?

  Taking a weak step back I look up into his rigid face, his jaw ticking overtime, “What are you?”

  Is this a gang? What do you stand for?

  “T'ach'naa.”

  “Say what?” I mumble, bad vibes now jumping so hard on my nerves I think I might need a pee pretty bad.

  “Emma, forget what I am. Friend or foe, pick one. It's time to decide,” he demands with a voice now inflected with aggressive undertones. His urgency is pretty darn clear and he may be a nutcase but he means this heart and soul.

  He holds out both hands, watching me like a sniper waiting for me to shake a hand that may possibly mar me for life.

  It would be intriguing if it wasn't so damn intimidating. Glancing between them the triangle looks the least painful, but I have a soul deep impression this is more than just a mark of friendship, it's a brand of allegiance, it determines whether I live or die this night.

  Yes it's strange, but I've seen weirder things than this.

  I refuse to offend him because he has shit sticking out of his hands the way the rest of us wear metal and tattoos.

  My hand is trembling when I lift it, clasping the large palm with my own. A scream wrenches out involuntarily when our flesh touches. The execution via electrocution is enough to incinerate my soul, the spiritual-fire meshing into my body buckles my legs and I stagger, tripping on the burgundy hem of my dress, the long sleeves snagging when I stumble to regain balance. My body is rejecting me, flaming my eyes with the flare of reaction, poisoning my bloodstream with an acidic inferno.

  Collapsing to my knees, cradling my hand, the excruciating pain is like he chopped it off at the wrist. Shaking violently I turn my hand ar
ound using the other to stabilize it, staring in horror at the blood and welts on my palm.

  Friend or foe, pick one.

  Thanks for the warning, asshole. What did you do?!

  My teeth clack together in trepidation when his hands claim my upper arms and he hoists me off the ground.

  We've already been in this position once before. Amour rusted my legs the first time, this time it's torture. He grips my palm, forcing blood out of my hand, stealing me away into the dark while my nerves decapitate with agony.

  “W..ait!” I wail, terrified.

  “Your blood must go in the book,” he states flatly, impatiently stalking into indelible dark, rendering me sightless in this impenetrable black blindfold.

  The only noise jangles my heart, it's the deathly echo of hard boots on a floor, ricocheting back and forth, multiplying to suggest a legion is marching me to be sacrificed to the night.

  Ghosts storm with us, their footsteps heavier than sin, mocking my futile wriggling to get free. Only the tendrils of insubstantial shadows will witness my end, their march a dirge.

  But I chose the palm for friend. Help!

  Chapter 4

  This close I can smell his skin again and despite my bewildered fear a harsh ache settles into my stomach, wallowing in a pressured sink to my legs.

  Sorcerously weakened, I wish I understood how he immobilizes me. Feeling heavy I cradle my hand while sagging against him, unsure if my jagged breathing is due to shock or dichotomous attraction. This is weird. All of it.

  Digging internally for the compass I never use I attempt to retrace my memories, examining them for gnawing sixth sense pings of danger or treachery. Nothing resonates. It's lust pure and simple, stupid lust, the kind that gets innocents murdered by serial killers because they're good looking and smooth.

  The searing pain in my hand distracts me and it dawns on me that tears of duress have slipped out to paint my face with tragedy's masque. Pain is not my friend so why mark your 'friends' with it?

  Light filters to us and I peer through my mental haze to the source with a glimmer of resurrected hope. His stride is long and he covers the gap to the end of the tunnel so rapidly that my heart flutters in relief.

  Staring up I take in the cave higher than a cathedral, long crystals stalactiting from way up high and somehow reflecting light down the steep walls to crest the cavern in a film of warmth. It's homely and welcoming, and precisely the pocket of normal I craved. Darkness noosed my soul for a claustrophobic moment back there and this light instills a measure of calm.

  Taking in the vision before me, it's phenomenal! I can't tell where the depth of the vacuous chamber ends; it's one vast fairy world. Long columns of stone partition the space directly in front of me into a stand alone... study? There's a huge table waiting, elaborate and opulent and so very enticing.

  Every inch of my body is itching to investigate this sacred dream, fear forgotten in the intrigue of his abode.

  He's surprisingly gentle when he stops next to the ornate chair at the table, planting my feet on the seat and waiting for me to stand, allowing me to use his body to steady myself against the faint vertigo still swirling my equilibrium.

  He uses my docile moment to thumb away my tears. It's not the act of a lunatic, it's compassionate. The touch and balming warmth of his hands holding my head is deceptively comforting. I'm so tempted to close my eyes and lean in, to be held and physically consoled, it's disorienting. I'm teetering on the bipolar ledge. My logic insists this is horrific and deranged while the rest of me has its own agenda, responding as if I'm with an old flame for a night of nostalgic loving.

  He waits for me to stabilize before releasing my hip, maintaining closeness the way a friend does in case you stumble while severely inebriated.

  Feeling like a child in the home of a Titan I stand on the chair to scrutinize the table and its paraphernalia. Before me is the largest book I've seen, it's the size of a family dining table. Holding my wrist over the blank right page of the open book Macala's grip on my injured hand tightens, forcing blood to swell to my fingertips, into the agonizing mark on my palm.

  “What... stop! God damn it dude that fucking hurts! What the hell did I ever do to you?”

  Blood gushes from the puncture wounds, immediately splattering onto aged parchment, ruining it. He yanks my throbbing hand up to prevent more from dripping, his grasp firm and warm, domineering while paradoxically tender.

  “It's the guest book. Everyone who crosses the threshold has to sign it,” he explains.

  “This isn't signing, it's mutilating for perverse curiosity.”

  “Blood cannot fabricate a lie or twist the truth. The book takes the true account of your passage through time, not the deprecating or rosy perception the ego perpetuates.” He looks into my eyes, finally at the same height, and my breath hitches. Despite the contacts his eyes are soft, caressing my soul with earnest caring in his empathetic stare.

  “Why are you doing this?” I whisper, my hand in his so agonizing I think I'm going to bawl.

  “I'm sorry it hurts, just a few more minutes and I'll stop the pain. Your life is in your blood, the record must be preserved that you were here no matter how much discomfort it causes you.”

  Discomfort my ass. It's infernal suffering is what it is! Sadist!

  Righteously annoyed I look at my palm, glancing at him in silent accusation as I examine the triangle puckering my perfect skin.

  He looks away, releasing my arm to stare down at the ancient page of the book where he offered my blood to the bibliophile god.

  Following his focus, I'm instantly fascinated. Distracted, I oddly couldn't care less about my throbbing appendage as I watch the blood trickle around the page, seeping into the thirsty book by webbing apart, spidering around the empty canvas like spores rapidly adhering to the gaps between tiles until the wall is covered.

  My blood has become script, the enormous page filling with neat lines of a strange language. It's a pretty font as if written by a manuscript illuminator. Crimson deepens and instantaneously ages to dark faded lettering. Now it looks as old as the tome.

  “What's happening?” I ask in a careful tone, stunned by the manifesting display of my life force turned into nothing more than verse in a book. It reduces me to insignificant, forgettable... expendable.

  “Your history is recorded for all time. It's a rite we must adhere to.”

  “No, I mean how the hell is it doing that?”

  He smiles fully, crinkling his eyes with the gesture, “I mentioned you have much to learn.”

  His smile is seraphic, morphing his eyes to adoring, twining my innards into love knots. “Teach me then! Explain how this is happening.”

  How can I find you so irresistible even though you maimed me? This is proof, isn't it? You're not crazy then, there's some truth in this. What does that mean? How is any of this even logically possible?

  “In good time, Emma. Before a scientist can measure the light years of the stars he must first learn to count. Do not rush your education for the sake of gratification.”

  He doesn't speak like a modern dude. This is disconcerting and messing with my sanity something fierce.

  The ominous resonance of footsteps approaching halts my argument and I twist to its direction with fear booming through my abused body. Now what? No more, I don't think my heart can withstand it.

  “Macala,” acknowledges the apparition as he steps out of the fathoms of concealing shadow.

  My knees give out, debilitation enveloping me via lethal injection from fraught nerves, my muscles visibly quivering. Easily at his height on my prop, I'm caught halfway to the seat by Macala.

  He holds me around my waist, forcing me to lean into his body and grip to his shoulder, inclining his head at the man, “Arghin, good to greet at high moon. Meet Emma, the one I told you about.”

  Macala's hold isn't threatening, it's friendly. Almost as if he's trying to tell me silently through touch communication that it's okay,
he's got this. It's freaking me out that now he makes me feel safe. Good cop bad cop, right?”

  Arghin is gargantuan. He's a foot taller than Macala and built like an argonaut on steroids. Across his shoulders he wears a pelt of some long furred animal, like an alpaca never combed, or a highland cow. His hair matches it and it blends seamlessly into his shoulders. He shakes the light brown mop out of his eyes to meet my appalled stare, “I am Arghin, good to greet you Emma.”

  His eyes! Oh my god!

  He's mammoth, like the visigoths of legend, a giant among men. One eye is perfectly blue, the other is running imagery across it like a television screen. It's mildly opaque and enough to flip me out. Sucking air into wasted lungs I'm fighting off the room tilting as my consciousness slips. Macala's support tightens, holding me up.

  Somehow my sense of humor bubbles up to my mouth to rescue me, and I mutter to Arghin, “I would shake your hand but mine's freshly disfigured.”

  “We do not handclasp, we kiss,” he smirks, leaning in to peck my cheek.

  Cringing back against Macala, automatically putting my hand out to stay him, the contact with Arghin's coat obliterates my lucidity. Fire flares up my arm, the wound seeping puss in instant defense, the blisters bursting under pressure. My nerve endings are frayed, raw, agonizing. My watery wail sounds alien, my vision swimming out of control and smudging everything into feverish specters while cauterizing pain annihilates me.

  “Greet later, I must adjourn to my quarters,” mumbles a familiar voice, the room gyrating, making me dizzier than a drunk.

  Nausea swallows me whole and I squeeze my eyes shut, praying I don't puke on my host while he absconds with me into the hungry shadows.

  Lurching in his arms like a paraplegic, the vision of those eyes will haunt me forever.